She lived
by emedealer
Summary: "He hoped not to wake her this time, as it had never been his intention in the first place. It became so frequent that she soon found it best not to ask questions, to stand aside and let him in." Sherlolly oneshot.


A/N: I know that this has been done about a million times, but I've got writers block, and I've got it bad. So here's a a little Sherlolly one-shot. Thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoy!

* * *

Molly Hooper.

It was the simplicity of her human nature, and the words that she used, the way she held herself with a confidence that had not bared itself until just recently. Her integrity, her values, the very thoughts that she had unknowingly prompted to linger in his mind, all of them should have been unwelcome. But they, in contrast to being pinned as a distraction, were like a breath of fresh air through his lungs. Both of which had been craving the absence of cigarette smoke as of late, but he hadn't relented much.

There was in fact, a cigarette hanging from his lips as he walked the pavement, which lacked the usual vigor of city dwellers in the dead of night. He stuffed his idle hand in his coat pocket as he turned on her street, coming to a stop at the base of her flat. Wisps of smoke hung about him in the dark, his eyes rising to her empty window.

The cigarette fell from his fingers, with him decidedly putting it out with his shoe. He blew out the rest of the smoke, and in a terribly familiar leap, took the walk up to her doorstep. He hoped not to wake her this time, as it had never been his intention in the first place. Often she would awake at his picking the lock on the door, and come in her disheveled state to see him. It became so frequent that she soon found it best not to ask questions, to stand aside and let him in.

It had started before his return to London, a necessity more than any real desire to be there. She had took him in at his brother's request, and had not been in a good state herself as she did so. She always gave him what he needed, but nothing else. In return, he took nothing, wandering silently about the flat as he attempted to hide the depression that began to set in heavily.

He remembered their first night, weeks after his death, when he had succumbed to his detest for sleeping on the sofa, and slept deeply in her bed for a time. The light seeping in from the bedroom door was what roused him, coupled with the footsteps that came quietly after. He had raised his head to see her standing at the foot of the bed, still clad in her day clothes, save for the lab coat.

She wasn't angry or in any way confused. The only thing he could discern was the exhaustion, and her blatant need for rest. He knew that she hadn't been granted much of it.

There were no words spoken before she sighed lightly, removing her patterned scarf as she moved towards the closet. He watched her grab a large t-shirt and enter the bathroom, flicking on the light. The brightness was blinding for only a moment before the door was closed, and he listened in the dark as she shuffled out of her clothes. The sound of her shower spurting to life brought him out the state of half-sleep he had been in when he heard her enter the room. She was in the shower for over twenty minutes before the water shut off, and she stepped out to blow dry her hair. As some sort of courtesy, she turned off the light before exiting the bathroom, and he saw her in the dark, sporting the t-shirt that almost hung to her knees. 'Must have been her father's,' he thought.

His eyes never left her as she sat on the side of the bed, routinely running her fingers though her hair before laid down fully, resting her head on the pillow beside his. She closed her eyes for a moment as she sighed out the stresses that she felt.

He marveled at how to simply decided to put those things away, and was able to face them again every day. He knew that he hadn't only requested that she help him fake his death, but had in turn asked her to bare the burden of keeping the secret, for however long a time that he would be away. He would be lying if he said that there wasn't any guilt wrought from his actions or the effects that they had on Molly, but she, in his mind, was absolutely one of the strongest people he had ever known, and everything that she did spoke volumes of that.

Her eyes opened to the ceiling above, and she didn't move for a time, pondering something deeply. He wished to know her thoughts, and found her to be very beautiful when she was lost in her own mind. Her damp hair fanned out behind her head, the curves of her profile contrasted against the dark wall beside the bed. It was when her eyelashes fluttered, when she blinked that his gaze wandered to her lips, which were parted as though she wanted to speak. There were no words, but her hand, resting absently on her collar bone was brought down to the hem the duvet, and pulled it upwards to cover them both. The hand then fell to her chest, which rose and fell softly under the white duvet. She was vulnerable and they both knew that, but he knew that she wasn't afraid.

His own hand arose to catch hers in a soft grasp, intertwining their fingers softly. She went rigid for a moment, but soon relaxed, breathing out slowly before her eyes finally found his. They were bright with apprehension, but tired nonetheless. He desired so much, to share his gratitude for her and the bravery that she put forth to be a vital part of this daunting task. Faking death had just been the start of it all, and there was a network of men and women that he now had to track down. He knew that in the end, he would inevitably come back a murderer of a number of those people. Such actions would be unavoidable if he was to succeed and return, that is if he ever found that to be a possibility. As of that moment, the answer was far from clear.

And so, when he felt her grip on his fingers grow tighter, he found confidence, and carefully moved forward to touch her lips in a kiss. It was chaste, and when he pulled away slightly, his palm had come to rest on her cheek. Her hand clung to his forearm, hardly loosening it's hold. She uttered his name in a whisper, the air of her breath mingling sweetly with his own in the close proximity.

It wasn't more than a moment before his lips were on hers again, moving slowly but so insistently that it couldn't be anything less than passionate. His hand traveled lower to catch her waist, and pulled her body flush against his. She let out a stifled gasp when his lips trailed downwards her neck, and he kissed her there.

A groan much less reserved was emitted from him when she firmly pulled at the follicles of his curls, weaving her fingers through them softly afterwards. He found her lips again, and the kiss was tender this time, lessening until they were fulfilled, and they saw one another again. They laid together in bed after that, wrapped in each other as they barely heaved for breath on the sheets. Both of them felt that they needed to go no further that night, as what needed to be said was splayed out openly in their actions.

She whispered that she loved him, and fell asleep minutes later at the firm press of his lips to her forehead.

* * *

His side of the bed was empty the next morning, save for a note.

He said that he wanted her to live.

* * *

-One year later-

He now stood on her doorstep, and had already come to the conclusion that she had chosen to take him up on his request. All the signs were there. She had moved forward.

She had a fiancé, and he was in her flat tonight.

Sherlock stood there for a time, grinned softly to himself and turned to the steps again.

There was still work to be done, and he could do it knowing that she was content.

He lit another cigarette.


End file.
